I do my best to minimize the time they have alone together. It’s hard to stop them going out to the pub or spending the night at his flat, though. I feel out of control if they disappear off there, even though it’s just downstairs, and when Mum comes back her movements seem even more slow-motion. I’ve tried pretending to be ill so she’ll stay, and sometimes she looks like she might, but then he appears, asking if she’s ready, drawing her away.

We need a bit of time to ourselves, Kate, she’ll say, tucking my hair behind my ear. You’ll be okay for a few hours, won’t you? Put a film on? I’m just downstairs, love.

I sit there watching reruns of cheesy old sitcoms, wishing he’d picked somebody else’s mum in this block of flats to ask out. Why mine? Why us? And why did she say yes to that first drink, then to another, when we were happy as we were? Before long it was dinners at our place, his bare feet in the mornings and his razor next to the sink.

Two nights ago, when Becca rang, all my fears about him came pouring out. For a while there was silence at the other end of the line. Then an uncertain little snort: “Your mum wouldn’t stand for that!” But she hasn’t seen Mum lately, doesn’t know how she’s changed. I told her it could happen to anyone, and if she could feel the atmosphere . . . When I started crying I think it shocked her into taking me seriously. “I’m sorry, Kay-Kay,” she said. “How ’bout I come stay with you next week? I need a break from this bloody job-hunting, anyway . . . It’s all right, Kate, everything will be all right.” I felt better then. Becca’s eighteen, older than me. Those two years somehow give her more power to fight this with.

Mum is standing in her underwear, leaning against her wardrobe in a moment of private stillness. And I can see that nothing I’ve tried to do over the last fortnight has been enough. There are bruises on her stomach, her legs, her arms. Some are yellow-green, like islands of mold, others fresh and dark, like stains of red wine. I clap a hand to my mouth and stumble back. Behind me the front door opens, and I turn to watch Nick’s tall silhouette eclipsing our hall.

15.

CHRIS

How well do you know Freya Harlow?

Are you friendly? The two of you?

Since nobody can confirm she made it back from her lesson with you . . .